


and we'll make many storms

by prosciutto



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Jealousy, Love Confessions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 11:03:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15862326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosciutto/pseuds/prosciutto
Summary: Her breath catches, and then she’s moving, rushing forward to catch him. Her fingers come away bloody when she pulls back, her other hand reaching up instinctively to hold him steady.It pulls a laugh out of him, the sound wet and raspy. “Miss me already, princess?” Bellamy says, sounding infuriatingly, incorrigiblysmugdespite the fact that he’s bleeding from a sizable hole by his side.Or: Bellamy's dying, so it seems like a good time as any to tell Clarke Griffin how he feels about her.And then he doesn't.





	and we'll make many storms

It only occurs to her that something’s wrong when she hears the gates pull open two hours too early.

She throws Monty a quick, panicked glance. “It can’t be them, right?”

He frowns. “They just left,” he insists, as if that would make a difference, somehow. “They wouldn’t be back so soon. Not unless—”

The screaming starts up before he can finish that sentence, and Clarke’s  _ moving  _ before she can think about it, barrelling towards the chaos. Distantly, she’s aware of Monty calling for her, his own stumbling gait following behind, but all she can really focus on is the rising pitch of voices, the rapidly forming crowd.

It’s Finn that comes into view first.

Not her first choice, but he’ll have to do. Shoving past a ring of gawkers, she draws up before him, breathing hard. “What’s wrong?” she demands, searching the sea of faces for someone familiar, for—

(She forces her thoughts to a grinding halt, shaking her head to clear it. Her reliance on him is getting instinctual, at this point, and she kind of hates herself for it.)

Finn meets her gaze then, his expression solemn. “It’s Bellamy,” he says, and just like that, she feels her heart stop.

“I’m sorry,  _ what? _ ”

He opens his mouth, as if to explain, and that’s when she catches sight of the blood on his hands.

The ground doesn’t open up beneath her, but it’s a near thing. It  _ feels  _ like it, at any rate. “What did you do, Finn?”

That puts him on the defensive almost instantaneously. “I didn’t do anything _.  _ I saw a deer, and I was just following it, when Bellamy went crazy, and started  _ yelling  _ at me.”

“For no conceivable reason?”

He has the grace to look a little sheepish, at that. “Because I wandered off into Grounder territory. But he didn’t have to come  _ after  _ me. It’s not my fault it set off the traps—”

“A little help here?”

She jerks away, refocusing her attention on the newcomer. There’s Jasper, a spear slung over his shoulder, and—

Her breath catches, and then she’s moving, rushing forward to catch him. Her fingers come away bloody when she pulls back, her other hand reaching up instinctively to hold him steady.

It pulls a laugh out of him, the sound wet and raspy. “Miss me already, princess?” Bellamy says, sounding infuriatingly, incorrigibly smug despite the fact that he’s bleeding from a sizable  _ hole  _ by his side.

(God, she hates him.)

“Cute. Except I can’t tell you if you’re concussed, or if you were always this stupid,” she snaps, staggering when he slumps over, groaning. “Shit,” she swears, lifting a hand and gesturing frantically until someone gets the message, darting over to help. “Bellamy? I need you to stay with me, okay?”

“Okay,” he says, woozy, closing his eyes. “But only because you asked nicely.” And then he’s out, the full weight of him nearly sending her buckling to the ground.

  
  


+

His breathing has gone shallow by the time they drag him over to the med bay.

“Clear the room,” she yells, wincing at the pull of her muscles as they lift him up onto the table. It’s cluttered with half-rolled bandages and poultices in various stages of progress, and she has to resist the urge to just sweep them off in one fell swoop. “Monroe, stand guard,” she barks instead, grabbing at the nearest bottle of moonshine. “Keep anyone from barging in. Harper, go to the dropship and get me seatbelts, a stick— just— anything that can work as a splint. The rest of you,  _ get out _ .”

They don’t need to be told twice, the room clearing out in the mere seconds it takes her to douse her hands in alcohol. She’s shaking so hard that she spills half of it on the ground, on the edge of Bellamy’s bloodied sleeve.

“Didn’t take you to have butter fingers.”

She startles, nearly dropping the entire bottle in the process. His eyes are closed, still, but there’s a unmistakable lift to his lips that wasn’t there before; face ashen and grey and flecked with dirt.

“You’re awake.”

“No,” he coughs, his voice wavering and dipping in the quiet of the space. Vulnerable and raw and open, like the day at the tree. The day she told him that he was worth saving. “I’m dying.”

It’s not supposed to hit her like this; not supposed to make her chest  _ ache _ and her throat clench and her hands shake. “Don’t,” she says sharply, looking away. “You’re going to be  _ fine,  _ Bellamy.”

He cracks an eye open, regarding her wearily. “So we’re lying to each other now, princess?”

She doesn’t dignify that with a response, busying herself with tearing away at his clothes. His skin is hot to touch, the wound by his side bleeding in a slow, hypnotizing trickle. Carefully, she presses down at the edges of it, peering in to see if she can spot any arrow fragments.

“You know, when I pictured you ripping my clothes off, this really wasn’t what I had in mind,” Bellamy mutters, shaking his head.

She snorts; a laugh bubbling up, despite herself. “Was this before or after you tried to drop me into a pit of spikes?”

“Before,” he says, without hesitation. “The day you first— you asked me about my gun. Jaha was there and— your  _ hair _ ,” he trails off, his eyes going out of focus. She holds her breath, her fingers tightening on the scalpel. Ready to lunge, to do what she has to save him, whatever the cost.

But then he’s speaking again, albeit slowly. “It was gold,” he says, soft. “Like the sun.”

Unconsciously, she finds her hands drifting to the ends of her hair. She hasn’t washed it for  _ days,  _ and she’s pretty sure there’s a whole new layer of dirt and grease coating it.

(For some reason, though, her cheeks are hot.)

“You need to get your eyes checked,” she mumbles setting the scalpel down and reaching for the moonshine instead. Uncapping it, she takes a swig, brings it to his lips. “C’mon. You’re gonna need it.”

He does, making a face as it goes down. “Jesus. That’s disgusting.”

“Things change, but not Monty’s brewing abilities.”

He gives a noise of assent, clearing his throat. “Take care of him. And Jasper, too. Get Raven to reign them in, from time to time, and make sure they have a handle on the whole lavatory situation.”

“That’s—”

“Fox gets nightmares whenever it rains, so you have to make sure someone’s there for her when it happens. Sterling is allergic to pine nuts, even though he says he isn’t. Tape down anything with wheels so Mbege doesn’t trip over them.”

“I’m—”

“Fuck, don’t forget Murphy. He—”

“ _ Stop, _ ” she interjects forcefully, clenching her hands into fists so she can keep from doing something stupid, like  _ crying _ . “Don’t talk as if you’re already gone, Bellamy.”

That pulls a ghost of a smile from him. Still, she senses the defeat in it; in the way his body slackens when he exhales. “You’re right,” he relents, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry, princess.”

“No,” Clarke snaps, and she’s not sure what possesses her to jab at his arm, hard enough that he groans, looking over at her. “Don’t you  _ dare  _ say you’re sorry and die on me, Bellamy Blake. I— I need you, okay? If you care about me at all, if you consider me—”

“I do care,” he murmurs, so soft that she has to strain to hear him. “That’s the problem, don’t you see? I care for you, in a way that I don’t for anyone else. And I don’t know what to do about it.”

She stills, swallowing hard.  _ Oh. _

(And fuck, maybe it’s unethical to take advantage of this, to ask him this when he’s pain, but, well. It’s not like she claims to be a good person.)

“In what way?” she asks, running her thumb over the soft skin of his wrist, finding his pulse. It’s weak, but there. Beating. Fighting.

He lift his head, meeting her gaze in a single moment of clarity. “The kind which makes me want to kiss you,” he says, just as his head lolls back, his pulse  _ skyrocketing _ ; and then she’s shouting for Harper, for Monty, for  _ help _ as the tent floods with noise and color and blood.

 

+

It’s night by the time he wakes, his form stirring just as she applies another coat of poultice over his wound.

He blinks, and she senses the exact moment he sees her, really— his gaze roving from her sweaty, flushed face to the blood on her hands.

It’s an effort to speak past the lump in her throat, but she tries, anyway. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Bellamy says, frowning. He makes to sit up, the motion instinctive, before a shudder wracks his body and he sinks back down, groaning. “Jesus. What the hell  _ happened _ ?”

“Grounder trap,” she says automatically. “You don’t remember? You were hit with multiple arrows, and your lung was in danger of collapsing, at one point, but…” she trails off, shrugging. She’s not sure what else she  _ can  _ say to that, really, especially with everything that has happened.

With everything that he’s told her.

“Fucking Collins,” he huffs, and with some effort, pushes himself up on his elbows. “I’m gonna  _ kill  _ that guy. Chasing after deer, going off the trail—”

“He thought he was doing the camp some good.”

That earns her a glare, venomous as ever. “You’re taking his side?”

She gapes, incredulous, as he swings his legs over the edge, sitting up. “I’m—  _ what _ ?”

“Save it, we all know Spacewalker is your favourite,” he grumbles, running a hand over his face. “Where the hell are my clothes?”

Defiantly, she raises the strips of cloth she’s repurposing into bandages. “Are you seriously mad at me right now after I’ve  _ saved  _ your life?”

“Are you seriously expecting me to be cool with you taking Finn’s side after I was  _ shot _ ?” he counters.

She opens her mouth to argue with that, a withering retort already on her lips when she catches a glimpse of his face.

There’s anger, there, and exhaustion too, and  _ hurt _ , beyond anything. In an instant, she can feel her rage slip away, replaced with curiosity.

(Maybe she’s projecting, or taking too much stock into everything he said when he was delirious and bleeding, but,  _ well _ . It’s not like she has anything to lose, anyway.)

“You’re right,” she says, clearing her throat. “I shouldn’t have said that.” Then, before she can talk herself out of it, she leans forward, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

That stuns him into silence, by the looks of it. “I’ll be right back,” she trills, biting back a grin.

She doesn’t go far, just a few steps out towards the makeshift hose on the pretence of getting water, but she’s positive that he lifts a hand to his cheek, fingertips grazing the spot her lips touched. For some reason, the sight of it warms her, fills her with a kind of light she can’t explain.

(Maybe one day, she’ll tell him everything. Of the things he said, and the way she feels, and everything that happened in the space between them when he was laying bleeding out on her operating table.)

But for now, this is enough.

“Nerd,” she mutters under her breath, grinning to herself as she makes her way back to the tent; towards him.


End file.
